


Waxing, Waning

by ObsidianPen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:14:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28435218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianPen/pseuds/ObsidianPen
Summary: "That's Dorcas Meadowes; Voldemort killed her personally..."---The tale of how one witch destined for glory met her match in a poor boy, then a prodigy, then a Dark Lord.
Relationships: Dorcas Meadowes/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 29
Kudos: 132





	1. I

The sky was clear and the moon was nearly full on the day that Dorcas Meadowes was born.

The weather was warm and the air was soft; the sky was beginning to darken to the point where that waxing gibbous was truly beginning to shine. It was twilight on the first of July when Ada Meadowes delivered a strong, healthy baby girl.

“She’s a flier,” her father, Leonard, had declared. Her mother might have rolled her eyes; their daughter had done little more than cry (with lungs that were undoubtedly strong), eat (with an admirable gusto), and sleep (shockingly soundly), and already he was making vast assumptions about her personality. In the form of Quidditch roles. “My girl is a Beater, just like her old man. Mark my words. Just look at that grip! Ironclad—perfect for holding a bat!”

Ada shook her head, watching the way her daughter’s tiny fist closed around Leonard’s finger. She touched her baby’s perfect, button nose. “No,” she said, smiling, “I think she’s more of a _Keeper_ … Aren’t you, Dorcas?”

* * *

Dorcas Meadowes was ten years old and fearless as could be and while she was certainly a flier, she was definitely, definitely a Chaser.

“Throw the ball already!” she shouted, impatient as she hovered. Her broom, a _Lux 7_ , was a gift that she had gotten for Christmas from her Uncle Melvin, and she had been on it nearly every day since then. Melvin watched her proudly from the ground, but it was her father who was holding the ball, spinning it on the fingertip of one hand with his wand in the other. 

“I’m starting to freeze up here!”

Dorcas was only exaggerating a little. The wind whipped about her, causing her curly, riotous hair to fall out of its braid and whirl around her. It was overcast, the kind of cloudy day that blocked out the sun and moon and everything in between, but that was the only ideal flying condition. It was cold, even by February’s standards, and the wind was biting.

“It’ll be cold and windy when you play for your team at school, too!” her father called. “Best to get used to it!”

Dorcas glowered, but had no time to respond to that—her father brandished his wand, and the ball went flying out of his hand. Uncle Melvin hollered as it soared, upwards, then sideways, then to the left—Dorcas dove after it, hands reaching out in the freezing wind—

“Yes!”

She caught it just before it collided with the cold, hard ground. Her father and Uncle both cheered as she pulled out of the dive, holding the ball high over her head in victory.

“Atta girl!” Melvin called. “You really—”

“Are you _still_ out here flying?”

Dorcas’s mother had a voice that carried over any winds—Dorcas would know; she had been told she had the same voice. As well as the same eyes. And hair. And what her father liked to call, the same ‘short fuse’.

Luckily for Dorcas, her annoyance quickly shifted to her father. “I thought you were just tossing a ball or two. That was almost an hour ago.”

“We got a little carried away,” Melvin said sheepishly. “Your daughter is good, Ada. Quick. Hasn’t fumbled a single catch.”

“My daughter won’t be much of anything if she becomes frozen to her shiny new broomstick,” her mother said. Dorcas hadn’t needed to be told to come down; she started to descend the moment she heard her mother and landed lightly on the ground at her side. Her mum grabbed the ball from her hand and tossed it at her father. She then turned to face Dorcas.

“Here, let me see,” she said, grabbing her wrists and pulling her hands towards her. Then she pulled out her wand and said, “ _Focillo_.”

Dorcas’s fingers, which had been frigid a moment before, warmed in an instant. “Now let’s go inside. Your grandmother is leaving soon, and we just made another kettle of tea. It’ll warm you right up. Leo, put her broom and that ball in the shed, won’t you?”

Dorcas was resistant to relinquish her broom. Her mother laughed. “Sorry, Dorcas. You lost the privilege to keep your broom in your room the last time you flew out your window on it.”

Dorcas grimaced but didn’t argue. She let her dad take her prized possession and followed her mother and Uncle into their home. “Don’t forget to lock it!” she called after him, to which her father raised one arm and gave her a thumb’s up.

Her Uncle patted her head and her mother grabbed her warmed hand.

Soon she was inside her home, surrounded by family—a grandmother who spoiled her, an Uncle who encouraged her, a mother who protected her, and a father who let her get away with anything, with a smile and a wink. Reminding him to lock the shed was all for show—they both knew that Dorcas could sneak into the shed by climbing through a hole in the wall at the back, no charms needed. She may have been the spitting image of her mother in many ways, but she had inherited her father’s love of adventure and flying.

And his smile.

Dorcas’s heart was full; her home was full of love. 

* * *

Her wand was 10 3/4” long, unyielding, with a core consisting of dragon heartstring. When Dorcas held the wand in her hand—having gone through a great many to get there, to her parents’ delight and entertainment—it let tingled in her hands. Everything felt _right_. A flash of light had filled the room, not unlike a lightning bolt, and it made Dorcas’s already curly, big hair puff up even more.

“Very good, very good!” Ollivander had declared, clapping along with her parents. “My, I haven’t seen a true owner of a _laurel_ wand in ages—and never have I seen one to bond with their owner so quickly.”

He smiled as he took the wand away, neatly boxing it up. He fixed her a mildly unnerving look, despite his wide grin.

“You must be destined for _glory_ , my dear.” 

* * *

Ada Meadowes ( _née_ Wirth) had been in Ravenclaw.

Leonard Meadowes had been in Hufflepuff.

When eleven-year-old Dorcas Meadowes stood in line with the other first-years, she was therefore one of the few students who didn’t know what house she would be in—not because she didn’t know everything there was to know about all the Houses, but because her family was so ‘all over the place.’

“They say it runs in families,” the boy in front of her said for about the twelfth time. It was Abraxas Malfoy; Dorcas knew it because they all knew it. He’d been boasting about his family and his name the whole boat ride over. “So I’m sure to be in Slytherin.”

Dorcas didn’t comment; she only listened to the conversation at all because the boy’s voice was so loud and _right_ in front of her. She was trying to listen beyond the closed doors—at any moment Professor Merryworth would invite them inside, and they would be sorted. She would finally know what house she would be in!

“I mean, there hasn’t been a Malfoy in over 200 years that was sorted into any other house. I’m a sure thing.”

Dorcas scowled, about to tell this Abraxas boy to shut up already—but someone else spoke first.

“Are you trying to convince all of us, or yourself?”

They all turned to look at the one person who had finally decided to stand up to the loud, arrogant blonde who had made a point to say how _important_ and _powerful_ his family was many times. He was tall and pale, with dark hair and darker eyes. He spoke with cool confidence as he looked at Malfoy.

Malfoy’s grey eyes looked his new adversary up and down, surely taking in his appearance judging him harshly for it. “And who might you be?” he sneered, avoiding the question.

“Tom,” the boy answered shortly. “I’d ask who you are, but I’m afraid we’ve all heard you announce it about a thousand times already.”

The others smirked and a few laughed, Dorcas included. “Tom who?” Malfoy prodded, ignoring that comment.

The other boy’s eye narrowed slightly. “…Riddle,” he answered after a pause.

That answer made Malfoy smile quite broadly, like he had just heard a great joke. “I see,” he said. “Well, Riddle, I wouldn’t expect you to know what it means to be house-proud. Muggle-born, I imagine? Based on that name and those robes—they give out used ones like that to all the… _untraditional_ students whose parents don’t want to bother shopping for new ones in our world… or who can’t _afford_ to.”

A few of the boys surrounding Malfoy sniggered, clearly agreeing with his points. Riddle kept his head held high, but his pale face reddened significantly.

Dorcas glared. “Do you think your parents could afford to buy you an ounce of sense?” she snarled. “Or to hire a proper Healer to fix that unfortunate head of yours?”

Malfoy’s focus shifted to her. She answered the question in his eyes before he could ask it. 

“Because it’s clearly twice the size it should be,” she finished coolly.

The other students—barring the boys who were clearly Malfoy’s rich friends—laughed. Dorcas looked from Abraxas’s angry face to Riddle’s, expecting him to be smiling as well.

He wasn’t. The pale boy was glaring at her more viciously than Malfoy.

“I don’t need _you_ to—”

“You vile, stupid little—”

Before either boy could finish their sentences, the doors swung open. They all snapped to attention and quickly got back in their assigned places as the entirety of the Great Hall faced them—their future houses, classmates, and professors. Headmaster Dippet smiled at them from the Headmaster’s chair in the center of the high table.

Dorcas felt a little smug as they marched inside, knowing that Malfoy—who was directly in front of her but could not so much as turn to glare at her at the moment—was fuming that he couldn’t get the last word in… but she was also a little troubled. Why had Riddle also been mad? Was he really angry that she had stood up to Malfoy with him?

 _Boys are stupid,_ she thought, then pushed the whole debacle from her mind so she could watch those who were sorted before her.

Abraxas Malfoy was, much to her displeasure, sorted into Slytherin quite quickly. He flashed her a haughty grin when the hat was lifted from his head, then sauntered off to his place at Slytherin table. 

“Meadowes, Dorcas!”

She was not afraid. Dorcas did not tremble when she sat on the stool, and when the hat fell over her eyes, she was not anxious, only curious.

She expected the hat to speak to her. Her parents said they had both had conversations with it; that the hat had considered several other houses for both of them before finally settling.

This was not the case for Dorcas Meadowes.

“GRYFFINDOR!” the hat shouted, declaring her new house in the very same second that its rim had settled over her eyes. 

The far side of the hall cheered in approval, and when Dorcas sat at her new table, she caught the eye of her new Head of House. Albus Dumbledore raised a glass to her, his blue eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

A few moments later, Riddle was, surprisingly, sorted into Slytherin just as quickly.

* * *

First years weren’t allowed to have brooms or try out for the Quidditch team, so Dorcas found other ways to sate her competitive nature.

She found herself becoming almost obsessively focused on winning the House Cup, and for that, she blamed the giant hourglasses. Dorcas had quickly developed an unhealthy habit of checking them all the time, and whenever Gryffindor was not in the lead, she would make it a personal mission to make it otherwise.

“How is it we’re losing to Slytherin?” Dorcas asked her friends—Alice and Chelsea, a redheaded pureblood girl and a very excitable brunette muggle-born—one morning as they ate breakfast. “We win loads of points; I answer questions right all the time. Ravenclaw I would maybe understand—bookworms, the whole lot—but Slytherin? How are _they_ winning?”

“There are lots of Slytherins who are smart too,” Alice said. “Especially that Riddle boy.”

“Yeah. He seems to know everything,” Chelsea agreed. “Kind of surprised he’s not in Ravenclaw, to be honest. He’s always in the library. I swear I see him there every time I go.”

Dorcas glared. She and Riddle had developed a strangely quiet, mutual loathing of each other since their first encounter—which went unquestioned as it was par for the course for Gryffindors and Slytherins. Still, Dorcas knew it stemmed from the fact that she had dared to stick up for him; like having a _girl_ help him was even more damaging than being insulted by Abraxas Malfoy in the first place. They glared at each other whenever they caught each other’s eye, and in the classes they shared they always fought to raise their hand before the other when a question was asked.

The unfortunate thing was that her speed sometimes worked against her—Dorcas would shoot her hand up in the air the moment she registered that a question was being asked, and would often do so before she fully understood what the question was. It was more than a little embarrassing when she would say the absolute wrong thing after raising her hand so confidently. Riddle loved to smile at her then.

Dorcas may have been a little faster… but Riddle always, always had the right answer. 

“Being able to read and memorize answers doesn’t make you smart,” she spat, stabbing a potato with unnecessary force.

“Yeah, but he’s good at magic, too,” Alice said. “Even Dumbledore gives him points for his work in Transfiguration sometimes.”

Dorcas couldn’t deny that—Riddle _did_ have impeccable spellwork. Even his fellow Slytherins—who still shunned him, as far as Dorcas could see; Chelsea was quite right, Riddle was almost always alone when he was in the library—cast him looks that at times that were undeniably impressed. He had been the first one to turn his match into a needle successfully, and he had done so on his very first try.

“Yes, well,” she said, “We have potions first thing today. Looks like we are about ten points behind on the House Cup. Let’s see if we can even the odds and get their Head of House to give us some points, shall we?”

Alice and Chelsea exchanged a look but didn’t argue. They both knew that when Dorcas set her mind to something, there was very little that could happen to make her change it.

They got to the classroom first, although Slughorn was already there. “Good morning, ladies,” he said as he stirred the cauldron that was at the front of the room.

“Good morning, Professor Slughorn,” they chorused back.

Dorcas almost asked what the potion was but knew that he would be asking that of the class soon. She instead took out her bag and began searching for brews that were deep purple in color.

She had just found the answer by the time the rest of the class had filed in, and the bell announcing the beginning of the period had sounded.

“All right everyone, quiet down now,” Slughorn called, and the class quieted. “Now. Today, we will begin the brewing of a new potion—one that is considered simple to create but is very powerful. Who here can—?”

Dorcas’s arm shot up. Across the room, sitting in the front row, Riddle’s had done the same—but Dorcas had been a hair faster. Slughorn’s eyes slid from his to Dorcas’s. “Yes, Miss Meadowes?”

“It’s a Sleeping Draught, sir,” she answered. Riddle turned in his seat to glare at her; Dorcas smiled sweetly.

“Very good! Take five points for Gryffindor. Now, the Sleeping Draught will make the drinker fall asleep almost instantly. We keep a stock in the hospital wing, so if you find that you are having trouble sleeping, you can always ask the matron, Madam Flint. However, you should exercise caution, for—yes, Mr. Riddle?”

Riddle’s hand had shot up in the air, no question necessary for a prompt. “You should exercise caution, for it can be highly addicting if taken too often,” he said quickly. “Sir,” he added right away.

Slughorn looked at him in surprise for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he should be annoyed that Riddle had interrupted him or pleased that he had been right.

Naturally, he settled for the latter. Riddle was in his house, after all. “Right you are, Mr. Riddle,” he said. “Take five points for Slytherin.”

Riddle flashed a grin at her. Dorcas’s hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“Now, the Sleeping Draught, while addictive, is generally safe for the short term—yes, Miss Meadowes? Do you have a question?”

Dorcas had thrust her fist into the air as though she were punching it. She did not have a question. “It’s safe for the short term, yes, so long as the correct dosage is taken—which is based on body mass index. Taking too large a dose can cause the drinker to go into a comatose state; taking an extremely large dose can cause the heart to stop, leading to cardiac arrest, and death.”

Riddle’s glower was tangible. The whole class was now looking back and forth between the two of them, confused at the sudden contest that seemed to have broken out. “Correct,” Slughorn said after a moment. He then grinned, as though he found them more amusing than anything. “Take another five points. But please refrain from interrupting for the rest of my lecture unless I ask a direct question... And that goes for all of you.”

Dorcas nodded, feeling her face flush a little, but it was worth it. She had gotten the points.

“So, as I was saying. The Sleeping Draught…”

Dorcas listened hard as he spoke, taking in every word. They would soon begin to brew, and Slughorn always awarded points to the student who produced the best potion at the end of the class.

“The ingredients are all here,” Slughorn said when he finished, gesturing towards a table full of ingredients. “And the instructions are here,” he said, then flicked his wand at the board, where a list appeared. “When you are finished brewing and your potion is simmering, you make work on your essay, due next Thursday. You may begin.”

He was right, the potion was not complicated. Dorcas smirked as she noted an interesting caveat to this potion. It brewed faster in a copper cauldron, which she had… and Riddle didn’t. He was using an inferior pewter cauldron—one that was obviously very old and used at that.

There was a small part of her that felt something that might have bordered on pity for him upon seeing it—it had been clear since day one that Riddle was poor—but that feeling died quickly enough. Riddle eyed her cauldron and then glared at her, a venomous look that might have made lesser people’s skin crawl.

Dorcas, however, was just reminded that Riddle was a total prat and that she was going to enjoy making a better potion than him… faster.

She focused, concentrating on making the perfect Sleeping Draught. _Gryffindor will be in the lead today, after this_ , she thought smugly. _No doubt about that._

When Dorcas had finished and was ready to let her potion simmer for 20 minutes, she turned to cast Riddle a superior look, and was surprised to see that he had already finished himself. Slughorn was standing over his old, pewter cauldron, nodding approvingly before he moved on to Abraxas Malfoy, the next Slytherin student, who was still working. 

Riddle caught her eye and winked. Then he picked up his quill and began to write, which was when Dorcas realized he already had nearly a whole paragraph of his essay done, too.

_How long ago had he finished brewing…?_

The answer became clear exactly twenty minutes later, when both Dorcas and Riddle had potions of deep, nearly identical purple. They were the first to cork their concoctions into their glass vials. Dorcas, wanting to be the very first, nearly ran to get her sample to Slughorn’s desk before Riddle. Riddle didn’t run—he sauntered slowly to his Head of House’s desk and slowly, purposefully so, set his vial next to hers.

His was a nearly imperceptible shade darker than hers.

Nearly.

“They’re the same,” Dorcas said, keeping her focus fixed on Slughorn.

Slughorn’s mustache twitched in what threatened to be a smile. He looked at the two potions and then at the two students before him. Riddle said nothing, only waited for his verdict.

“We shall have to wait until the _rest_ of the class finishes their potions,” he said at length. “Please, take your seats… And stick around after class, you two. I think we should have a chat.”

Dorcas nodded stiffly and made a point to not look at Riddle before she returned to her seat, nor for the rest of class. Alice passed her a note asking what _that_ was about, and Dorcas scribbled one back saying ‘Riddle’s a prat and I have to stay after class.’

Which was hardly an explanation, but Alice didn’t question it.

By the time class finally ended and everyone besides Dorcas, Riddle, and Slughorn had left, Dorcas had not two sentences done with her essay—she hadn’t been able to focus. She couldn’t help but notice that Riddle had written a substantial amount on his scroll before he wrapped it up into a tight furl and put it into his bag.

Slughorn gestured for them both to come to his desk. Riddle went at once. Begrudgingly, Dorcas followed.

“I understand that some competition is healthy,” Slughorn said, “but it would be remiss of me to not have noticed that today you two were particularly venomous towards one another. Is this something that should concern me? Has something happened between the two of you?”

“No,” Dorcas said at once. Riddle shook his head but again said nothing.

“Then why this palpable hostility in my classroom?” he said.

Dorcas shrugged. “I just want to win the house cup,” she muttered. “And Gryffindor is losing to Slytherin by a bit… Riddle and I get the most house points.”

Slughorn looked to Riddle, his brows raised, waiting to see if he had something to add. “…I play for Slytherin,” he said simply.

Slughorn stared at the two of them for a time. Dorcas was just beginning to worry that they may _lose_ points when he started to laugh.

“Well! I must say, I appreciate the school spirit you two have, but you do realize how little sway the younger years have in the House Cup competition, don’t you?”

Dorcas stared, as did Riddle. Neither of them said anything.

“House points are awarded for magical prowess, and the upper years have far more opportunities for gaining a higher number of points,” Slughorn explained. “And winning quidditch matches, of course, and the tournaments the various clubs hold… those add quite a bit too. What 3rd years and below do is barely a drop in the bucket, so to speak. Unless something extraordinary happens to warrant a lot of points. Not exactly common, though.”

Dorcas’s jaw dropped, and from the side of her eye, she could see that Riddle also looked a little taken aback.

“Now, that being said… Mr. Riddle, your potion was the best made today. A perfect Sleeping Draught. Take ten points for Slytherin. Miss Meadowes, yours was also very good… but alas, there is rarely a prize for second place.”

He stood. “Now off you go,” he said, waving them away. Then he wagged a finger at them. “And no fighting in the halls.”

Dorcas held in her anger and turned, going to gather her things. She moved as quickly as she could, hoping to avoid Riddle in the hall, but he had already packed his bag. When she left he was there in the hall waiting for her, leaning against a wall and looking ever so haughty.

It didn’t matter how quickly she moved—Riddle was, somehow, always one step ahead of her.

“You brewed an admirable potion today, Meadowes,” he said when she drew near, his dark eyes glittering.

“Shut up, Riddle,” Dorcas spat. She stormed past him.

Riddle laughed, and though he did not pursue her he called, “Alas, there’s no prize for second place!”


	2. II

It was a half-moon on the night of what Dorcas thought may be the most important day of her life.

She was restless in her bed, tossing and turning so much to the point that all the other occupants of her dorm room had pulled the curtains tight around their beds—and probably cast silencing charms, too. Dorcas couldn’t help it; there was no way she could lie still.

Quidditch tryouts were tomorrow.

Finally, finally! Tomorrow Dorcas Meadowes, second-year, would become a part of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. She had been paying close attention to their teams Chasers, and whole Evans and Nichols were good, she _knew_ she was better than Ross… even if he was a fifth-year.

Dorcas turned to face the window, the one closest to her bed that was high on the wall, near the ceiling. She liked to keep her curtains open a bit on that side to see it— to be able to look at the stars twinkling down at her. She smiled. Tomorrow, she thought. 

The half-moon smiled back at her, brilliant light and mysterious darkness in equal parts.

* * *

“And it’s another ten points for Gryffindor! They are now in the lead by eighty points, folks—it is not looking great for Slytherin!”

Dorcas was grinning from ear to ear as the crowd roared for her, half cheering and half hissing as she yet again scored for the Gryffindor team.

 _Her_ team.

Evans shot her a thumbs up; Nichols, who had been the one to pass the Quaffle to her, flew past her and hollered in delight. The two of them flew around each other in a spiral above the Gryffindor stands, eliciting another wave of cheers.

“And what’s this? Rosier has taken a sudden dive—has he spotted the Snitch? Oh, but Weasley is right on his tail—”

Dorcas whipped around to watch the heart-stopping moment. How horrible would it be, she thought, to perform so well in her first match, only to lose because the Seeker couldn’t catch the Snitch…

“And they’re diving hard, folks, they’re neck in neck—good Godric, it looks like they might slam right into the ground—”

Dorcas almost screamed, because it really did look like that was about to happen. It was an unprecedented sensation, watching the final moment of a match unfold when you were one of the ones in the air. Being on the sidelines, safe on the ground, she had never felt this much anxiety, this much pressure. This helpless.

_Get it, get it, get it Weasley!_

Rosier pulled out of the dive at the last minute, but Weasley—the only other girl on the Gryffindor team—didn’t. She went hard and didn’t flinch and just as the crowd collectively was shouting and gasping she turned, barely avoiding a horrible collision, and—

“AND SHE’S CAUGHT THE SNITCH!” the announcer bellowed. “GRYFFINDOR WINS BY AN ASTOUNDING TWO HUNDRED POINTS!”

Dorcas screamed in approval so loud and for so long she was sure she would lose her voice. She, Evans, and Nichols all came together, flying in a swan dive formation over the Gryffindor stands. Weasley was holding the struggling snitch above her head, and their Keeper and the Beaters were flying around her in circles.

The Slytherin side of the stands was booing and disgruntled, but they were easy to ignore.

* * *

The good thing about having a mother in Ravenclaw and a father in Hufflepuff was that they had passed on much of their very different Hogwarts knowledge to their daughter.

Because of her inquisitive mother, Dorcas knew that there was a secret room on the seventh floor that would turn into a very quiet, private place to study when you really needed it—one that would have all the books, parchment, quills, ink, and whatever else you could possibly need to be the most studious student.

Because of her father, Dorcas knew that there was a door in the entrance hall that led to a staircase, which, if taken down, led to a hall of food-themed paintings. One of these paintings contained a bowl of fruit, and if you tickled the pear, you would be welcomed into the Hogwarts kitchen—where house-elves would happily give you whatever food or drink you could possibly want.

It was this second secret, of course, that Dorcas found more useful—infinitely so. She had tried going there once near the end of her first year, and after she’d done it she wondered why she hadn’t been going all the bloody time.

Tonight, for the first time, she brought her friends along for the excursion.

“You’re sure we’re not going to get caught?” Alice asked yet again. She was a stickler for the rules, Alice.

“Of course not, just be quiet,” Dorcas said. “We’re almost there, c’mon… ah, here we are.”

“Oh, can I do it?” Chelsea asked.

Dorcas grinned. “Sure,” she said. “It’s this one here.”

Grinning widely, Chelsea reached towards the painting Dorcas was pointing to and ran her fingers along the pear. Nothing happened.

“Well, you have to try harder than that!” Dorcas hissed, but she was smiling too.

“Well excuse me, sorry that I don’t tickle painted pears often—”

But even as she spoke, Chelsea touched the pear in the painting with much more vigor. It swung open before she could finish her sentence. She, Alice, and Dorcas all beamed at each other before going inside.

The house-elves were nothing short of delighted to have three visitors, despite the fact that it was technically after curfew. But only by a few minutes, Dorcas had said, trying to justify the late-night journey to the kitchens. The party in the Gryffindor common room was still going strong after their victory, but they had run out of snacks and butterbeers a while ago. Dorcas, already high on her Chaser-hero status, had offered to fix that.

But she couldn’t carry everything alone. “This is plenty,” she said as she, Alice, and Chelsea had stuffed their bags full of sweets and drinks. The house-elves continued to push food on them though, until their arms were also full. “Thank you so much!”

They left with mischievous grins, being careful to be quiet as they made their way back to the common room. Fortunately, the caretaker, Robert Wilson, was very old, and the students knew that half the time he didn’t even make rounds at night anymore. He left that to the prefects, but they didn’t typically start their rounds until about eleven.

They had a window. Dorcas was confident that they would succeed.

“Oh, shite!”

A butterbeer and slipped from her arms, rolling down the hallway. “Dang it! Why did we let the house-elves give us so much to carry…?”

Scowling, Dorcas ran after it. It was most unusual and infuriating too, because the bottle seemed to be gaining speed as it rolled, not slowing down, and it had somehow curved to go down the hall to the right…

Dorcas almost dropped everything in her hands when she turned the corner.

Tom Riddle was standing there, holding the butterbeer. Also, his wand, which made it clear that she had not just dropped it—Riddle must have seen them and decided to summon it out of her hands.

Which was infuriating on a few levels. They wouldn’t cover summoning charms until fourth year…

“Hello, Meadowes,” Riddle said calmly. He twirled his wand in his hands, a long, dark, dangerous-looking thing.

“Riddle,” she gasped. She looked from his wand to his face, both alarmed and annoyed. “What are you doing out here?”

“I would ask you the very same thing,” Riddle drawled, “but I think that’s perfectly obvious…” His eyes narrowed at all the food in her hands. “How did you get into the kitchens?”

Dorcas returned his glare with one of her own. “That’s for me to know and you to find out,” she said airily.

Riddle’s eyes flashed in cold anger. “You know it’s against school rules to be out past curfew,” he spat. “Especially for something like _that_.”

“You’re also out past curfew,” Dorcas pointed out. “And what’s your excuse for being out so late? Trying to sneak into the restricted section of the library or something? Yeah, I heard you asking Slughorn after class that one time… guess he doesn’t think whatever book you wanted is appropriate for a second-year… no matter how _smart_ and _talented_ you are.”

Riddle’s glower was so menacing that Dorcas was almost frightened. But she was winner, a hero, and nothing was going to ruin the day that she helped win the first match of the Quidditch season.

“Anyway, I have a party to go to,” she said coolly. “Keep the butterbeer. You can consider it a gift.”

It took a lot of willpower to turn her back to Riddle when she knew he had his wand out. He could attack her, and probably wanted to, but Dorcas knew he wouldn’t. If he saw her then he definitely saw that she was with Alice and Chelsea, and Riddle wouldn’t strike her when he knew she had allies and witnesses… not when they were _all_ out past curfew.

“You know it’s a waste of time,” Riddle growled after her, just as she was about to turn the corner and be out of his sight. She looked at him over her shoulder.

“What is?” she asked.

“Quidditch. It’s just a stupid game, you know. Useless.”

Dorcas grinned. “Tell that to the far emptier Slytherin hourglass on your way back to your dorm,” she said. Then, before he could say anything, she flounced away, returning to her friends.

“What took you so long?” Chelsea asked. Neither of them noticed that she hadn’t returned with the wayward butterbeer. “And were you talking to someone?” 

“Sorry. Got distracted by a ghost,” Dorcas said.

“Not Peeves I hope,” Alice said worriedly. She looked up and around, like Peeves might appear and drop stinkbombs on them right then.

“No, no, no,” Dorcas said, shaking her head. She continued down the hall, towards the staircase that would lead them to their tower and the festivities that awaited them there.

“Just one of the sad, quiet ones.”

* * *

It was their third year that there was a major change in Riddle.

He had come back to Hogwarts that year with a very different air about him. In his first and second year, he had been a loner, an outcast. The poor orphan without a name in Slytherin house, whose peers clearly did not accept him… who spent all his time in the library, studying and writing in his little black journal.

By his third-year, however, this was clearly not the case. Perhaps the other Slytherins had finally accepted that, even though he was not a Pureblood with a great deal of wealth, Riddle was a genius, and his spell-casting was superb. He was the favorite pupil of their Head of House. He earned them more points than any other Slytherin in their year. And, a fact that was highly annoying but also completely undeniable at this point, he was _handsome_.

Riddle had really matured between the summer of their second and third year. Some people were just early bloomers, Dorcas supposed bitterly, and Riddle was one of them. Most of his soft, child-like features were already gone, and he was one of the tallest students in their class, if not the tallest.

But what had changed most in Riddle was his demeanor. Maybe it was just the fact that his housemates had finally stopped shunning him, but Riddle carried himself with a sense of dignity and confidence that he never had before. Like he had woken up one day and decided that he was, in fact, incredible, and deserving of all the world had to offer, and he would have it… all while smiling charmingly and causing the staff at Hogwarts to fawn over him.

Dorcas didn’t buy it.

She knew what he had been like as a first-year; she had seen the shadow that lurked in his eyes. The other Slytherin boys may have begun to act like they were his friends, but she could tell it was all fake. Riddle didn’t care about them. Dorcas was sure that he remembered vividly how cruel Abraxas and his buddies had been to him as a first-year. To see them act friendly now was absurd and made Dorcas highly suspicious. They acted more like a cult than friends.

 _Slytherins_ , Dorcas thought, shaking her head. She would never understand them. They irked her.

Which was why she almost hadn’t come tonight.

While her academics remained moderately impressive, Dorcas had been putting more time and effort into Quidditch than anything. She was bloody amazing at flying, if she did say so herself, and with her Chasing scores and Weasley’s Seeking skills, they had won the House Cup last year. They beat Slytherin by a hair—just seven points. That was the equivalent of one score in a winning match.

(Dorcas had made sure to make this point very loudly when Riddle was in earshot; seeing his perfect composure crack slightly as he obviously heard her but pretended not to was a delight)

Her chasing prowess had gotten impressive enough that even Slughorn, who only rarely attended Quidditch games when his house wasn’t playing, had looked forward to going to a non-Slytherin event. He went to the second game of the season, Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff, and had admitted the next day to being blown away by Dorcas’s flying.

Which was how she found herself invited to this little _party_.

One of only two Gryffindors in a sea of Slytherins and a handful of Ravenclaws… and the only third-year except her plus one, Abraxas Malfoy… and Tom Riddle.

Dorcas nervously sipped her drink. They were all gathered in his office, which had been cleared of its usual furnishing to fit them all. Dorcas was simply doing her best to make an appearance and get out. She hadn’t wanted to come, but she also hadn’t wanted to offend her professor… and if what people said was true, Slughorn did have connections that had helped many students get a leg up in the workforce after school. So, here she was.

At least he had told her she could invite a friend.

“This is a bit tense, isn’t it?” Alice said. Truth be told, Dorcas would have preferred Chelsea’s company tonight—she was much bubblier and could have provided some much-needed comic relief—but Chelsea was a muggle-born and was even less inclined to attend a Slytherin-fest than Dorcas was.

“That’s an understatement,” Dorcas murmured.

“I feel like they keep glaring at us.”

“That’s because they are.”

It was true enough—the older Slytherins kept casting distasteful looks at Dorcas and Alice, clearly annoyed that such young Gryffindors were in attendance.

“We just have to stay long enough for Slughorn to talk to us, and then we can go,” Dorcas said. “Look, here he comes. Let’s get this over with.”

Dorcas nudged Alice on the shoulder, nodding towards Slughorn, who was indeed coming their way. They both put on big, forced smiles. 

“There she is!” Slughorn boomed, grinning at Dorcas. “The Gryffindor Chaser. I haven’t seen flying like that in years, my girl—and I attend the games in the League fairly often! Have a few past students who went on to play for Puddlemore United and for the Canons. Free tickets, any time I like.”

“Thank you, sir,” Dorcas said.

“Thank _you_ for joining us this evening. I know it’s daunting, coming to a party with so many older students. But I hope you find it flattering! I only extend the invitation to the best and brightest.” He turned his smile to Alice, who had made a disgruntled face—she, after all, had not been invited, she was just a plus one.

“I must say, I am quite glad Miss Meadowes invited you, Miss Fawley,” he said to her. “You’ve always performed well in my class, but I’ve noticed in your essays that you have an exceptional way of _thinking_ about potions. The true art of potion-making is not in the ability to brew—at that, Miss Meadowes is quite skilled—but in the ability to understand the how and why of potion-making; to know how the ingredients interact. It’s what differentiates a mere brewer from a Potions Master… and you, my dear, may have the potential to become the latter.”

Alice’s face turned a slight tint of pink. “Really?”

“Really,” Slughorn said. “I do hope you continue on in Potions for your O.W.L.s, Miss Fawley. It is your kind of thinking and problem-solving that would lend itself to making antidotes, and that skill is one that is very high in demand indeed… you just need to focus more when it comes to the actual brewing!”

Dorcas raised her brows at her, suddenly very glad they had come to this party. Alice was, on the whole, average in most of her schoolwork—her real skills and passion lied in music, but she rarely shared that ability with anyone.

Alice smiled at Dorcas. “Well, I always have Dorcas to help me with that.”

“Indeed, indeed,” Slughorn said. “But I doubt you’ll find your future in potion-making, Miss Meadowes! I could see you playing Quidditch professionally. Let me guess—you support the Holyhead Harpies?”

Dorcas grinned. “How’d you know?”

“You wear their pin on your bag,” Slughorn said wryly. “I have connections with the Department of Magical Games and Sports, you know, so if the Harpies are scouting by the end of your Hogwarts career, I could perhaps facilitate something…”

Dorcas and Alice shared an exhilarated look. She was really, really glad they had come. “That would be amazing, sir,” Dorcas said.

“But I’m getting ahead of myself!” Slughorn boom. “You’re just in your third year! Speaking of—Tom! Abraxas! Come over here!”

Dorcas grit her teeth. She was hoping they could be in and out of this party quickly enough to avoid them…

Still, she kept her features composed in a smile when Riddle and Malfoy answered the call of their Head of House. They were both grinning pleasantly as well, though the acidic tension hung heavy in the air. 

“Now, now,” Slughorn said, noting the tension as well as also not being fooled by the fake smiles, “I know there is a long-standing rivalry between your two houses—and I’ll admit to sometimes participating in and invoking that rivalry—and I know that this group has a particularly competitive history”—he paused to look pointedly at Dorcas and Tom— “but I think there is a time to set such things aside… I believe you are some of the most promising students in your year, and often collaboration can result in much greater gains than competition.”

Riddle nodded his head and said, “I can certainly agree with that, sir.” He and Abraxas shared a grin that Dorcas thought looked nearly conspiratorial.

“But inter-house collaboration! That’s something we should strive for more of, Albus and I have spoken about it for years. You lot should consider it sometime. You might be shocked to learn you have more in common than you think.”

The boys both nodded dutifully, but Dorcas knew it was just an action to appease their head of house. She didn’t blame them for their response—she and Alice did the same, though they both knew there was no way they were about to start planning study groups or something with Slytherins… no matter how smart, talented, or good-looking they were.

“On that note,” Slughorn said. Then, without another word or further explanation, he left them there—a little group of four, third-year students who positively despised each other.

“Enjoying yourself, ladies?” Malfoy asked, his voice thick with fake charm.

“We were,” Alice said. “Slughorn is shockingly kind and flattering.”

“Yeah, I suppose you don’t have to be in Slytherin to be in the Slug Club after all.”

Riddle and Malfoy shared a smug look and laughed. “You think you’re in the club now, do you?” Malfoy said. “Being invited to _one_ party?”

Dorcas glared. “Well, we’re here, aren’t we?”

“You, my dears, have no idea the things you are not… _invited_ to,” Riddle said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dorcas snapped.

Riddle smirked. He held his drink up—a butterbeer, Dorcas noted, instantly taking her back to that moment she had summoned one from her arms, years ago—and pointe di towards her. “That’s for me to know and you to find out,” he said… saying the same words now that she had said to him then.

He winked.

Dorcas _hated_ when he winked at her.

She hated even more that it now had an altogether new effect on her than it had when they were eleven or twelve. It made her furious and bitter and why, _why_ did he have to be so handsome?

She felt her face growing warm with too many heated emotions. Riddle’s eyes glittered playfully as they locked onto hers, like he knew _exactly_ the kind of effect he had on her. Because of course he did, because he had that effect on _all_ the girls. “Enjoy the party,” he murmured. He and Abraxas then turned away from her and Alice, rejoining their fellow Slytherins… and leaving Dorcas’s mind reeling about what, exactly, he meant by that.


End file.
